


If It Ain't Baroque, Don't Fix It

by apple_pi



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-25
Updated: 2011-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 22:36:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi





	If It Ain't Baroque, Don't Fix It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trulybloom](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Trulybloom).



"Honestly." Crowley dropped his leather gloves onto the page Aziraphale was reading and sprawled in a chair consisting, apparently, of devout wishes and six thin sticks of finely carved kindling. "I wish I could take credit for the French, but there you are. A self-made species."

The angel removed Crowley's gloves from his book and finished his paragraph before looking up; he kept one pink, impeccably manicured finger upon the page to mark his place when he did raise his eyes. "They do have lovely wine," he said.

"Oh, well," the demon said. "So do the Venetians, if it comes to that." He sighed and let his head fall back. "Lucifer, this century is dull." He yawned.

"You've been sleeping again, haven't you?" Aziraphale said. "You never were a morning person."

"I never was a person, full stop." Crowley smiled, and he didn't bother to hide just how pointy his teeth were. His eyes, behind small, blue-tinted spectacles, gleamed. "Don't tell me you've never slept, angel."

"Of course I have," Aziraphale protested. "I rather like dreams, you know. Lovely things."

Crowley snorted. "I don't bother with dreams. I'm quite sure we don't get the same ones you lot do."

Aziraphale looked, damn him, sympathetic. "My dear."

"Oh, bugger off," Crowley said. "I'm awake now. What did I –" he stopped to yawn again – "ohhh, what did I miss?"

The angel tapped his chin with one finger. "Let me see. Things have got quite exciting in the New World, I think. A couple of ours are keeping quite busy there, can you imagine?" Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Some lovely music, marvelous books. War has been quite busy, as usual. Pestilence hasn't had as much to do in these waters, not since that sad business, you know..." Aziraphale saw Crowley's look of absolute loathing at this unfortunate reference to the fourteenth century and trailed off.

"So I haven't missed anything, really," Crowley said, and angel nodded hurriedly. Crowley snapped his fingers and plucked a bottle of wine and two glasses out of the air. "When did you move shop to Paris?" He poured for them both.

Aziraphale accepted his glass with relief. "Oh, decades ago; I think it was..." He looked at the ceiling. "The end of the sixteenth, yes, so. Goodness, I haven't seen you in half an age." He looked positively delighted to see the demon now, and Crowley stifled a pleased smirk.

He rolled his eyes and sipped his wine, looking away. "It's been a busy span," he muttered. He could hear the angel being cheerful. "Oh, shut it," he said.

"Certainly," Aziraphale agreed. The room seemed brighter, and Crowley knew why, though he refused to look directly at Aziraphale's smile. "I know how sleeping can simply eat up the time."

Crowley growled, and Aziraphale beamed ineffably.


End file.
